


Time Traveller's King

by maricharde



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, M/M, time traveller Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricharde/pseuds/maricharde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, wait a second. I’m sorry, how do you know me?”<br/>“I have known you my whole life.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Traveller's King

**Author's Note:**

> After months of not being able to write anything... Here it is. Enjoy and check the notes at the end for translations.  
> A huge thank you to my wonderful beta @obithefabulous - posting this would be impossible without you <3

Not a star is visible on the clouded night sky, and the wind is blowing harsh and cold, toppling trees and making huge waves on the lake. A small boat with two people inside is thrown up and down, slowly but persistently making its way to Lake Town. One of the people is a small child, wrapped in so many layers of clothes and blankets that he resembles a lumpy ball. Behind him sits a small woman, rowing tirelessly against the waves. Strands of dark hair are sticking to her wet face as she stares ahead at the familiar lights of the town, sliding in and out of her view.

 “Are we there yet?” the boy shouts, his thin voice barely audible in the blowing wind and crashing waves. A tired smile appears on the woman’s face.

 “Almost, love. But n…” she is cut off by a  huge wave crashing on the boat. They are both thrown into air. A loosely tied bag held by the boy opens, scattering its insides - herbs, plants, few pieces of meat - into the water.

 “Mum!” he screams from the top of his lungs.

 He’s a great swimmer, like every child raised in Lake Town, but the weight of his clothes begins to drag him deeper into the cold water. He struggles against it, waiting for his mother to appear on the surface anytime.

 But she doesn’t.

 “Mom!” he tries again, much more panicked.

 And suddenly he realizes he’s not in the lake anymore.

 He’s standing in the corridor of his own house, naked and shaking. Through the slightly open door he can see his room, warm and filled with flickering light of a single candle. He sees himself, tucked into his bed, and his mother singing to him.

  _But that was yesterday?_

 He feels a tingly sensation spreading through his body and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s standing in the boat again, and immediately loses his balance, falling backwards, as the boat rocks from side to side. He sits up, breathing heavily.

 The wind begins to calm, the waves are smaller now. The moon peeks out from behind the clouds, casting its cold light on the much more tranquil lake. The boy is left alone in the boat, silence all around.

 Suddenly he hears splashing behind him, and turns immediately, ready to hug his mother and listen to her comforting words. But it’s not her.

 He shouts in fear as a hand shoots out of the water and grabs the edge of the boat. A stranger pulls himself up and crawls into the boat, holding one of Bard’s mother’s oars in his other hand. He has a moustache and there’s something eerily familiar about him.

 He puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the latter inhales sharply.

 “Bard, calm down. We don’t have much time. I’m here to help you.” The man is short of breath and his voice is raspy.

 Young Bard watches, paralyzed, as he begins rowing in strong, swift motions. They are minutes away from the harbour.

 “Listen.” the man says, not stopping for a second. “You just were somewhere else. You watched yourself and your mother singing to you, yes? You travelled in time.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “I know this because I am you. From the future.”  He turns around to throw a quick look at his younger self. “Don’t be afraid. You’re going to be okay.”

 “You’re lying.” the small boy says loudly and with absolute conviction, his teeth chattering. “What about my mom?” he adds immediately, not giving the stranger a chance to reply. The man sighs.

 “She’s gone, Bard. I’m sorry.”

 Young Bard’s mouth drop open. And then he yells again.

 “No! This is not true, we have to go back for her!” He jumps on his adult self, throwing punches. The boat rocks dangerously, but keeps moving forward. Until it slows down, and the boy realizes he’s punching the air. The oar falls down to the bottom of the boat with a dull noise.

 He stops, trembling and breathing heavily. There is no one in the boat with him, and the water is completely calm now. A dozen more meters and he could climb onto one of the decks in the harbour.

 “Help!” he shouts. “Help me!”

 Somebody steps out of the nearest house, holding a lantern.

 “Help!”

 ***

 Years later he finishes drying himself with a thick, coarse towel and reaches for the clothes lied out neatly on his bed. Standing in front of the spotty mirror he’s wondering if he should have listened to his friends’ advice and borrow a more elegant outfit for this occasion. Sticking to what you know is one thing, visiting the Elvenking in clothes that smell like fish is another.

 It is too late now anyway.

 He walks out of his house, and is immediately joined by two elvish guards who have been apparently waiting for him outside. He’s not sure how elves function, but somehow they seem to always be a step ahead of him - ready to answer questions, ready to give out medicine before he asks, ready to escort him. He gave up trying to remember their names and faces a while ago.

 He’s pretty sure this is the first time he has seen these two. They bow their heads in a welcoming gesture and begin walking without a word, so he follows, amused by the ceremony. He’s curious if their king will live up to the tales told about his short temper and sharp tongue.

 He straightens his back and takes a deep breath before entering the tent. One of the elves holds the piece of material serving as the door open for him.

 He stops and looks around after entering. He expected glamour, but this exceeds his wildest fantasies. It’s warmer than it ever was in his own home, and there are pillows and blankets everywhere, and he raises an eyebrow seeing actual furniture made of dark, carved wood. In the middle stands a table with maps and pieces of parchment scattered over it. And next to the table stands the famous Elvenking, looking straight at Bard with his mouth slightly open, more similar to a beautiful statue than to a living thing. And once Bard lays his eyes on him he can’t look away.

 “ _Evennol._ ” Thranduil says quietly, throwing a glance at the guards. They disappear immediately, and he looks at Bard again, and suddenly his lips curl into a smile, and something joyful sparkles in his eyes. Bard holds his breath.

 “You told me this would happen, but I did not expect it now.” is not something he thought he would hear as a welcome. The Elvenking comes up closer to him, and he instinctively makes a step back. The elf stops, crossing his eyebrows, his smile faltering. “Oh. This is the first time you have seen me, yes?”

 Bard nods slowly. Thoughts race through his head, and questions along the lines of “ _What the hell?”_ , but he watches Thranduil in silence, careful not to speak out of line. He knows too well what kind of trouble it can cause.   

 “I would offer you wine but it makes you…” Thranduil continues, making a vague gesture with his hand. “...travel.”

 “No, wait a second.” Bard finally regains his composure and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, how do you know me?” he asks suspiciously.

 The Elvenking smiles again, wider this time.

 “I have known you my whole life.”

 The tent door flap open before Bard has a chance to say another word, and immediately the elf’s face turns into a mask again, devoid of emotion.

 “Mithrandir. How… lovely to see you.”

 ***

 “Thranduil, come back!”

 A little boy with blonde hair and dark eyebrows runs across the palace’s cobbled yard and into the woods. It’s a hot summer day, one of those when the whole world seems to slow down, and the air is humid and sweet. Nobody really bothers chasing the small elf, and the forest animals raise their heads lazily as he passes them, light-footed and fast.

 He finally runs out onto a vast meadow, full of flowers and grass, buzzing of the bees and chirping of the crickets. He skids into a halt when he notices there’s someone else already there.

 There is a man sitting in the tall grass with his eyes closed a few steps from the edge of the trees. His face is turned towards the sun and his dark hair is braided in an elvish way. He looks peaceful, serene even. But he’s an intruder.

 “Who are you?!” the elf puts his hands on his hips and pushes his chest forward, doing his best to look threatening. The man blinks in surprise and turns around.

“Thranduil?” he says quietly, his eyes wide, and a disbelieving smile lingering on his lips.

 “How do you know my name? What are you doing in my father’s kingdom?” Thranduil demands. The man grins brightly.

 “My name is Bard. I know you in the future.” he says, and raises an eyebrow. “I’m a time traveller.”

 Little Thranduil crosses his arms.

 “There’s no such thing as time travellers.” he announces with absolute conviction. Bard smiles even wider.

 “And yet, here I am.” he replies, spreading his hands. Thranduil tilts his head to one side.

 “Prove it.” he says, slightly less sure of himself.

 “Very well. I’ll be back here in exactly a week.” Thranduil scoffs.

 “Anyone could be back here in exactly a week.”

 “True, but not anyone could do this.” Bard says. He gives Thranduil a little wave, and then the elf watches in awe as he disappears into thin air.

 ***

 “So how long ago did we meet for the first time?” Bard asks. He’s sitting in a comfortable chair next to Thranduil, with a pillow behind his back, wrapped in a soft blanket. Gandalf is gone now, and what’s left is an almost empty bottle of wine - single-handedly drained by the Elvenking himself - and some tension still hanging in the air.

 “Thousands of years ago. I was a child.” the king replies, pouring the last drops of the wine into the golden goblet he’s holding.

“That… that is a lot of time.”

“I suppose for you it is.” Thranduil stands up and produces another bottle of wine from a wooden case standing on the floor. “It is peculiar seeing you this young.”

A guard enters the tent, and exchanges short, quiet words with his king. Bard watches them carefully, especially Thranduil - the cold glint in his eyes, the haughty quirk of his lips, the way he stands. Every inch a king, and Bard wonders how can he have anything in common with this otherworldly creature.

“I should be going to sleep.” he says hesitantly when the guard leaves.

“Stay a while longer.” Thranduil proposes in reply. The illusion of grandeur disappears, as his face changes in seconds when he looks at Bard. And Bard wonders for a moment which one is the mask and which one is the real Elvenking.

“And watch you drain another bottle of wine without offering me any?” he raises an eyebrow, and Thranduil laughs.

“I can offer you tea.”

***

A few days later the inevitable happens. The battle was more horrible than Bard had expected. It’s over now. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

The bodies scattered around make his heart ache. He’s slowly walking through the battlefield, noticing every familiar face. He’s trying not to think about if it was worth it. His body feels heavy and it’s difficult to make another step, but he keeps going, because it’s better than stillness.

 He knows he’s going to have to come back soon. The people want him to make decisions and they will begin searching for him any moment now. But first he wants to make sure Thranduil is fine. He imagines the news would reach him if the Elvenking fell, still he fears for his safety. Every flicker of blonde hair causes his heart to beat a little quicker.

 Over the past few days he began thinking fondly about the Elvenking. The ease and comfort he feels around him, even in times as terrible as these, is something he hasn’t experienced in a long time. And he couldn’t stand it if it were all to end before it even began - whatever “it” was.

 He breathes out with relief when he finally finds Thranduil far away in a remote, silent cave, sitting on the ground with his head in his hands. He hears Bard coming from meters away. There are traces of blood on his face and a hollow look in his eyes.

 “Are you all right?” he asks in a dead voice. Bard’s relief mixes with a heart-wrenching sadness.

 “I was about to ask the same.” he replies, with a little sad smile. Thranduil doesn’t smile back. Bard awkwardly sits down next to him. “I am. Kind of.”

 The elf nods, staring at the ground blankly. There is an out of place strand of hair hanging across his forehead. Bard reaches out hesitantly and puts it behind Thranduil’s ear, and Thranduil catches his hand, linking their fingers together. His skin feels soft and cold.

 Bard tries to put his head on Thranduil’s shoulder, but the hard pauldron isn’t the most comfortable pillow. So instead Thranduil pulls him closer and kisses him delicately.

 For a moment Bard freezes as he realizes he and Thranduil must be so much more than just friends, and his heart beats faster. He closes his eyes and kisses back, tentatively at first, and then he gets lost in the soft touch of the elf’s lips on his own, the faint smell of wood, the way Thranduil’s hair feel like silk when he runs his fingers through it. Just for a second the whole world fades away, and everything is fine.

 They sit still with their foreheads touching for a moment longer.

 “We should go back.” Thranduil whispers.

 ***

 It’s early morning when everything begins to calm down. Almost all the bodies are found and taken care of. The wounded are resting in the improvised hospital tents. The fallen elves are being transported back to Mirkwood - the last group just left, grim and silent, their faces still like masks even in mourning. Teams composed of men and elves are coming back from scouting the nearby caves and hills for any survivors of the orc armies.

 The dwarves are taking care of their own too, not interrupting anyone and not being interrupted. Dain sent a message asking for a meeting tomorrow, and Bard agreed. All decisions and plans have been made, and now in the cold light of the rising sun he’s entering the Elvenking’s tent.

 Thranduil is sitting by the table, one hand supporting his forehead, the other holding a quill. The piece of parchment before him is covered in scribbles and notes. Wax from an almost burned out candle is dripping on the ground, and there’s a just opened bottle of wine standing on the right.

 He looks tired, Bard realizes, when their eyes meet. For a moment he wants to give up and just sit down without saying anything, let the silence and eachother's company soothe their nerves. Instead he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

 “We need to talk.” he begins, but then a well known sensation interrupts him, a tingly feeling spreading through his body.

 “I think we’ll talk later.” Thranduil replies softly, his eyes fixed on Bard’s hands, or rather the empty air where they should be. Bard mumbles a curse under his breath.

 A forest surrounds him now. The trees are gigantic, with huge trunks and dark leaves. A deer runs by, brushing against him, and it’s taller than he is. There is noise all around - buzzing of the insects, singing of the birds. But there is one sound that feels out of place - singing. A slow and bitter melody, beckoning and filling the air with sadness.

 Bard follows the voices, and after a few minutes of sneaking through the trees and struggling not to step on a dry branch he sees it.

 A procession of horses, with too many riders to count them all - and they are all elves, pale and tall, dressed expensively. Some of them are singing or carrying lanterns, some are scanning the forest, alert and menacing, bows on their backs and swords by their hips.

 At the beginning of the column, preceded by an elf with a lantern, rides a king - blue-eyed, white-haired, with a fantastic crown made from flowers and leaves. There’s a haughty look in his eyes and lines around his mouth giving him a stern expression. He’s talking quietly to the elf riding next to him. And that one Bard recognizes.

 It feels peculiar seeing him so young again, and Bard can’t hold back a smile. He’s not sure how what age would qualify an elf to be a teenager - but this is what Thranduil is now. His hair is slightly shorter than Bard is used to, and braided, and there are no rings on his fingers. He’s gesticulating wildly, saying something to the king, who as Bard realizes must be his father. There’s no doubt - they are almost identical in looks.

 “ _..._ _ú-_ _chenion... Am man theled?..._ ” Thranduil is speaking loud enough for Bard to hear, even though he doesn’t understand a word. He can understand the emotions in his voice though - anger and reproach.

 The king answer is too quiet to reach Bard’s ears, spoken through gritted teeth and with a furrowed brow. The conversation continues, and Thranduil’s voice gets louder with every sentence, until finally his father’s grows impatient.

 “ _Avo bedo!_ ”. He shouts, stopping his horse. Thranduil stops talking mid-sentence, and the elves behind him exchange meaningful looks.

 “ _Daro! Man le?”_ a voice of another elf interrupts the king before he can continue, and suddenly Bard realizes everyone is looking at him. Listening to the conversation he forgot about staying stealthy, and now there are elves pointing arrows at his naked body.

 A shiver goes down his spine and his mouth drop open.

 He was never so grateful to feel that familiar warmth that spreads through him whenever he begins disappearing.

 He looks straight at Thranduil and their eyes meet. The elf is staring at him trying to keep a straight face, but Bard can see the amusement sparkling in his eyes. Before disappearing completely, he grins and waves at Thranduil. And then he’s gone.

 He finds himself back in Thranduil’s tent, but it’s dark and quiet now. He waits for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Earlier events of today flow back to him, and suddenly he feels exhausted. His clothes are folded neatly on the chair he usually sits on. He puts them on and looks around.

 A dark curtain is hiding the area reserved for sleeping. Bard walks inside as quietly as he can. Thranduil is lying on a cot with pillows everywhere, not asleep, staring blankly into space. Their eyes meet when Bard enters.

 “You’re back.” he mumbles sleepily.

 His hair is spread out on the dark pillow like strands of silver. Bard sits on the bed next to him.

 “I saw you. In the forest with your father. Remember that?” Bard whispers. Thranduil smiles.

 “He would not stop asking me about you. He took you for a spy.” he replies, and takes Bard’s hand.

 “What were you doing there?” Bard asks, linking their fingers together.

 “Leaving home.” Thranduil smile fades, and he pulls Bard down for a soft kiss. “Do you still want to talk?”

 Bard shakes his head.

 “We can talk in the morning.”

 ***

 Months later Bard finds it difficult to remember how he ever coped without Thranduil in his life. It’s not only that Thranduil helps him with every step of finding out what a king should do, steadily and quietly always there ready to offer advice or a comforting word. It’s also having someone to send a letter to when he’s gone, someone to kiss in the morning when he’s here, someone to comment on Bards fashion choices or offer him food he would otherwise never try. It’s not being alone for the first time in years, and the whole world seems brightly coloured nowadays.

 He’s getting better at serving as a king. He keeps using that word, and Thranduil gives up trying to convince him to talk about ruling instead of serving. And he keeps reading, everything Thranduil gets for him - books about history, politics, economy.

 He’s also becoming an expert in mediating between Thranduil and Dain. There are still frequent meetings happening that need to be attended by all the three kings. And no meeting can go without an argument, someone leaving the room dramatically (Thranduil), someone throwing something against the wall (Dain), someone banging his forehead on the table in desperation (Bard). He cannot quite comprehend how can two rulers usually so reasonable and smart can be also so petty and easily angered.

 The negotiations usually take place in Dale. The official reason is that it’s the middle ground between Erebor and Mirkwood, and nobody questions it. The truth is that both Dain and Thranduil refuse to pay each other a visit.

 Bard is actually perfectly fine with that, since it’s just another excuse to see Thranduil again. He only worries, as usual, that one day he’ll disappear in the middle of a meeting. It hasn’t happened yet, and he’s hoping it won’t happen today either.

 The dwarves arrive first, with song on their lips and shouting and stomping and hand-crushing handshakes. They don’t need to be told to feel like home and bring their own alcohol, a few round barrels of ale. In contrast, the elves come in a dignified fashion, and all the usual pleasantries are exchanged, even though Bard can clearly see Thranduil struggling not to laugh. But savoir-vivre requires a dry welcome just for show, apparently.

 After the baggage is taken care of and the horses walked to the stables, Thranduil follows Bard to his room, where their actual welcome can happen in peace. The whole room seems to light up as Thranduil enters. It’s good to see him again, to touch his skin, to feel his lips.

 “I missed you.”

 “I missed you too.”

 There is still time before they have to come back and attend their respective duties, so they sit down on Bard’s bed and talk, and cuddle, and Bard feels like he’s fifteen years old. Thranduil braids his hair. His presence is something stoic and soothing, and a blessing after many days of living in constant stress.

 “The Master didn’t pay attention to any papers at all, it would seem.” Bard complains, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. “I’m still finding scraps of bills or agreements I don’t understand.”

 “I can send someone to help you organize things, if you wish.” Thranduil suggests. Bard shakes his head.

 “I have people helping me. I want us to do this by ourselves, it’s just frustrating.” Thranduil takes his hands out of Bard’s hair, and Bard turns around to face him. “But thank you.” he adds with a smile, and Thranduil leans down and kisses him right on the nose.

 Bard stands up to examine himself in the mirror. The hairdos are always a surprise. This time it’s two braids connecting in the back.

 “Why don’t you ever braid your hair?” he asks, touching one of the braids carefully.

 “It... used to be a mourning thing. Now it is simply too much work.” Thranduil replies reluctantly, standing up from the bed and walking up to him.

 “Mourning?” Bard turns around and wraps his arms around Thranduil’s waist.

 “Never mind that now.”

 ***

 There is a short introductory meeting first, and a grand supper later. In the morning the official, serious and important part of the Dain and Thranduil’s visit is supposed to begin. But today is meant for everyone to settle in, so food and drink is brought out to the tables, and there’s singing and catching up on the gossip. And then there’s more and more drinking, and then many hours later the party Bard really didn’t plan is slowly coming to an end.

 All three kings are still here, even though they’re the ones who should go to sleep early. But Dain was in the mood for a party, and Thranduil would not be outlasted. And Bard knows better than to leave those two alone. Percy is present too, sitting next to him, and a few people on the other end of the table, having a quiet conversation.

 "All I'm saying is, nothing can stand against our ale, and none of you tree lovers could handle drinking too much of it." Dain announces, his speech slightly slurred. He bangs his fist against the table to emphasize his words.

 One glance at Thranduil's face is enough for Bard to know that this will not end well. A vicious glint in his eyes and a subtly raised eyebrow replace the bored expression from a moment ago, and the Elvenking's words can be predicted with a terrible accuracy.

 "Oh, really. Well, why don't we prove you wrong?" he says, straightening his back. Bard touches his arm, hoping to stop him, but he is ignored.

 "I'd like to see you try, princess."

 "Can someone bring us a barrel of the dwarves’ ale?" Thranduil says to no one in particular, leaning back with a smirk and crossing his legs.

 "You!" Dain points towards a small dwarf sitting at the other end of the table, who jumps to his feet immediately. “And make it two barrels!” a wide grin appears on his face, and he sits back comfortably too, mirroring Thranduil’s position. Bard throws an exasperated glance at Percy, but he seems to be enjoying the situation.

 "I'll help him." he says, not even trying to hide his excited smile, and leaves the room with the dwarf. Bard is left alone with two kings who are apparently having a staring contest now. He tries to come up with something to say that would ease the tension, when suddenly a loud noise from the kitchen interrupts them. A sound of crashing glass and a loud thud, and then Percy yells Bard’s name.

 They run into the kitchen, stumbling over their own feet. Cold sweat dampens Bard’s palms and forehead as he looks down and sees... himself.

 His double is shivering and choking, pressing his hands to a deep wound in his stomach. Bright red blood is spilling on the stone kitchen floor and shattered glass of bottles knocked down from a table. He looks older, and there are strands of gray hair on his head and lines around his eyes, and he is undoubtedly seriously hurt.

 For a second Bard meets his own shocked, terrified eyes. And then his double disappears, leaving behind only mess and silence.

 Bard is afraid to look into anyone’s face. Nobody is saying anything, frozen in a weird state of shock and confusion. Finally Thranduil speaks up quietly.

 "It has been a long day. We should all go to bed."

 The rest nods hesitantly. They mutter goodnights and leave, throwing glances at eachother and dragging their feet. Bard doesn't move until Thranduil delicately pulls his elbow. It’s only when they are alone in his bedroom and the doors are closed and locked when he begins thinking somewhat clearly.

 They don't say anything for a long while. Thranduil sits down with his head on Bard’s shoulder, staring into space. Bard’s heart is still racing.

 "I-I'm sure he'll be fine." he says finally, hesitating. "It's probably nothing."

 "I have never seen you older than that." Thranduil says slowly.

 “Thranduil, I…” Bard starts, but the elf interrupts him.

 "Our time would already be painfully short.” He sits up and puts his hand on Bard’s cheek. “Why does it have to be even shorter?" he adds as their eyes meet.

 Bard finds himself unable to find an answer to that. Instead he pulls Thranduil closer and kisses his forehead.

 ***

 A slow, hazy morning comes, and warm, comforting light pours in through the small windows, waking Bard up from an uneasy sleep by Thranduil’s side. They fell asleep in their clothes last night, weary from drinking and extreme emotions. Bard turns around now to lie down with one arm under his head. Thranduil is still sleeping, facing away from him, and Bard reaches out to touch his hair, gold in the morning sunlight. The elf moves as Bard’s hand accidentally brushes his ear, and Bard smiles, waiting for him to turn around.

 “Good mor…” he begins, his voice still raspy from sleepiness, but the words stop in his throat as he takes a glance at Thranduil’s face.

 There are scars that have never been there before. Dark wounds, exposing the flesh in his cheek, and marks going down his neck, ripped skin and discolorations. His eye is completely white. Bard automatically jerks away and stumbles out of bed, further from the horrible sight.

 “W-what…” he stutters, and Thranduil’s expression changes from surprise to realization, and he sits up abruptly.

 “I’m sorry, Bard, wait…” he closes his eyes for a short moment. Frozen, Bard watches as the wounds heal and scars disappear in the span of seconds, and Thranduil’s skin comes back to its usual pale colour. Hundreds of thoughts race through his head. “Bard?” Thranduil asks hesitantly. “Bard I am so sorry. I didn’t want it to go like this.”

 "What the hell was that?” Bard breaks out of his stupor, pointing a finger at Thranduil. The elf drags his hand across his face.

 "Nothing. Just..."

 "Are you hurt?" Bard walks up closer, and Thranduil reaches his hand out to him. Bard takes it carefully. "What happened?" He slowly touches Thranduil's left cheek. The elf leans into the touch.

 "See? It is nothing.”

 Their eyes meet, and Bard raises an eyebrow expectantly. Thranduil sighs and pulls him down to sit on the bed.

 "I fought a dragon once." He says lightly, as if it was a casual thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. "I got him, but he got me first. There isn't much more to this story."

 “But I’ve never seen them before.” Bard replies, after a moment of collecting his thoughts. Thranduil shrugs.

 "It looks bad, so I tend to keep it hidden. I can not conceal it when I sleep, but I usually woke before you." He explains, and Bard scoffs in disbelief.

 “So what, you’re magical now?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

 “It’s only a simple illusion. Nothing too magical.” Thranduil smiles. Bard shakes his head in disbelief.

 “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

 Thranduil stands up and walks up to the window, facing the lake and the rising sun.

 "You would see it anyway. From my point of view, you did already. Older you." he says. “I did not wish to startle you sooner than that.” he turns around to look at Bard again, and his eyes are bright and warm in the sunlight. His clothes are creased from the restless sleep and a few strands of hair stick out in odd ways, and a thought goes through Bard’s head that he’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

 He joins Thranduil by the window. "I’m sorry." he says, wrapping his arms around Thranduil’s waist. Thranduil leans in and Bard presses a soft kiss to his lips. It feels like standing in the eye of a cyclone - two of them in a tranquil moment with all the issues and chores of the world outside.

 "Does it hurt?" Bard asks quietly.

 "Not when it's hidden." Thranduil’s voice is almost a whisper.

 "Is it difficult then? To hide it?"

 "It is a habit."

 ***

 In spring Bard’s friends decide it’s time for a coronation. He was hoping they would never get this idea, and he asks them to at least make it a small ceremony - but that plan falls apart when he mentions it to Thranduil, who immediately starts planning who should be invited and where to put all the tables. He presents such a grand vision of a joyous celebration that Bard simply gives up, and prepares to at least have some fun.

 They prepare his speech together, and it’s how he likes it - short and to the point. And he know his people will like it too. The dwarves send the crown, wrought with incredible delicacy and attention to detail, and even Thranduil reluctantly agrees that it’s beautiful, and perfect for Bard - made of gold, with few rare stones, light and elegant.

 And when the day comes the crowd - composed of Bard’s friends, Thranduil’s elves and dwarves from Erebor - is full of anticipation and laughter. Gandalf arrives too, uninvited, because nobody knew where to search for him, and brings tons of fireworks, much to local children's (and many adults’) joy. There are tents and tables on the shore, and lanterns everywhere, and elves are guarding the food and wine.

 “There. Good enough?” Bard walks out of the bedroom and stands before Thranduil, wearing the clothes the Elvenking brought him especially for the coronation. And Thranduil stares at him for a moment before answering.

 “You look fantastic.” he says finally, and stands up to grab Bard’s hand and pull him closer. “And you are fantastic.” he adds between the kisses, and Bard laughs.

 “We’re gonna be late.” he reminds him, and Thranduil lets go of him reluctantly.

 “True.” he sighs, walking up to the door.

 But when he opens them for Bard and turns around to let him through, all he can see is a pile of clothes of the floor and an empty room.

 Bard, meanwhile, is on the balcony of the Elvenking’s bedroom back in Mirkwood. It’s the middle of a warm, starry night, and there is silence all around, interrupted only by the sound of soft wind in the trees.

 “Welcome again.” he hears a familiar, hushed voice on the left. Thranduil is standing next to him, holding something small in his arms. He seems younger than the one Bard left a second ago, although he is never sure of his judgement when it comes to elves.

 “Hello.” he replies. “Why are we whispering?” he adds, more quietly, when Thranduil puts his finger on his lips.

 “My wife is asleep. Look.” Thranduil holds up the package he’s holding, and Bard realizes it’s a tiny child, wrapped in a white blanket. He can not hold a grin, seeing the little pointy ears and a toothless smile, and bright blue eyes looking at him resolutely.

 “He looks just like you.” he whispers.

 He’s wondering if Thranduil’s wife is aware he even exists. If she worries about strangers from the future haunting her husband’s life. If she would be angry if woken up now, or if she would wish to meet him.

 “Do you want to hold him?” Thranduil’s question stops Bard’s train of thought.

 The image of the Elvenking standing on the balcony under a starry sky with a child in his arms stays in Bard’s head when he finally comes back to his own time.

 The celebrations of his coronation seems to be reaching its peak now. There is music and dancing, and food on the tables, and huge amounts of ale and wine. The guests pat him on the back and mumble drunk congratulations as he’s walking through the crowd, looking for Thranduil.

 He finds him standing on a small pier far away from the noise, staring into space, holding a glass of wine in one hand and Bard’s crown in the other.

 “Did I miss my coronation?” Bard asks, joining him. Thranduil looks at him blankly, as if pulled out of deep thinking.

 “You didn’t.” he says finally. “But you were late. Here.” He smiles softly and puts the crown on Bard’s head.

 “Well then. Officially a king.” Bard says jokingly. “Doesn’t feel any different.” He takes Thranduil’s hand and kisses his fingers.

 One of Gandalf’s fireworks is launched into the sky and explodes into a shower of blue and gold sparks. A gasp of wonder coming from many throats at once is heard, and then applause.

 “Let’s go back.” Thranduil proposes, and Bard happily agrees.

 The rest of the night is full of laughter and music and hope. They celebrate until the sun rises, and long after, until finally Thranduil mumbles a proposition into Bard’s ear to “get the hell out of here”.

 ***

 Months pass. Winter comes again, and it’s filled with quiet evenings in Bard’s kitchen, warm, peaceful mornings in Thranduil’s bed, insane sleigh parties on the way between Mirkwood and Laketown, ice skating on the Long Lake, order and peace.

 And then one day a letter arrives which causes a commotion in Thranduil’s halls. For a few days there is preparing and planning, and a few sleepless nights - and then, one snowy day, Legolas comes back.

 Bard has no idea what to expect. Legolas didn’t seem to dislike him when they met, but then again, Bard wasn’t very good at reading elvish words and expressions. He’s still not an expert when it comes to most of them. There is only one elf he always understands perfectly.

 Thranduil thought it would be better if he welcomed Legolas by himself, and so Bard is now pacing back and forth, alone on a wide terrace overlooking the Elvenking’s gardens. Although it’s really difficult to call this a garden - more like “a meadow that we put some chairs and tables on”. The seats and tabletops and everything else is covered with a thick, soft layer of snow, and the sky is overcast.

 The cold, brisk air is helping Bard clear his head and calm his nerves. It’s not every day you get to meet an adult son of your elvish… what, exactly? All the different words that could or could not be used to describe their relationship rush through Bard’s head. He mumbles a curse under his breath and turns around to walk back through the terrace again.

 And he stops immediately.

 Many times the elves startled him by approaching him too quietly from behind. Those of them who see him frequently learned to walk a bit louder, or announce their presence with a discreet cough. But Legolas did not have that opportunity, so it shocks Bard to see him already there.

 “Hello.” Legolas says, his voice expressionless, and a polite half-smile on his face. He bows down his head slightly, and Bard mirrors the gesture. “Nice to see you again.” he adds, and Bard wonders if he really means it.

 He looks different than the last time Bard saw him. Bard can’t put a finger on what exactly changed, but there’s something different about his posture, or maybe in his eyes. It hasn’t been long, and yet he looks older.

 “Hi!” Bard smiles widely and sincerely. “How are you?”

 Legolas looks at him for a long while without replying.

 “I am well, thank you. I have a question.” He finally breaks the silence just as Bard begun to feel uneasy. Nothing can be read from his face.

 “Bring it on.” Bard shrugs.

 “You and my father. What is this?” he asks, making a vague gesture with his hand. A hundred answers run through Bard’s head and none of them is good. Finally after a long silence Legolas grows impatient. “I’ve been informed of your… situation. Is it true or has he gone insane?” he adds, walking up to the edge of the terrace and looking at the garden. Bard is tempted to point out that that was two questions.

 “You mean my travelling?” He asks weakly instead. Legolas nods. “It’s true.”

 “How come I never met you then?” Legolas continues, turning around abruptly.

 “You did. You were too little to remember it now.” Bard smiles, remembering the tiny child in Thranduil’s arms. Legolas hesitates before asking another question.

 “Did you know my mother?” he says quietly and Bard’s smile fades.

 “I never met her. I’m sorry.”  

 Legolas turns around to look at the view from where they’re standing again, and Bard walks up to stand by his side.

 “Is it good to be back?” he asks after a moment of silence. Legolas smiles, for the first time since they started talking.

 “Yes, it is. I did not expect it to be.” He looks at Bard and their eyes meet. “He seems happier.” he says softly. “I think I have to thank you for that.”

 Legolas stays for a few weeks before leaving again. Thranduil’s halls come to life - wine starts mysteriously disappearing from the basement, groups of elves led by the prince sneak around the corridors at night, failing to stay quiet, there are random trips to the woods and different meals at the table. There are also long conversations with his father, which leave them both tired, but also glad more often than not, and Bard is happy to see something changing.

 Legolas leaves early in the morning one day, while everyone is still asleep.

 “He doesn’t like goodbyes.” Thranduil comments when Bard asks him about it, and then changes the subject.

 ***

 Sometime in the summer Bard comes up with an idea to drag his old barge out from the shed. He neglected it ever since the bargeman got replaced by the king, and it feels strange to step on that old deck again and touch the shabby rudder.

 “Sorry, friend.” he mutters, checking on the ropes and sails. It looks like he’s gonna have to replace those if he wants to put the thing on the water again.

 Thranduil grumbles a bit about how a king should not do such things when Bard brings it up, but he soon stops, especially once Bard mentions his plan involving the two of them, some wine, some blankets and the middle of the lake at night.

 He fixes up the barge, scrubs the floor clean, changes the tackle. He takes it out to the waters for a test sail, much to the surprise and joy of his citizens who follow him and watch from the bank. He’s slightly worried he’s gonna crash as soon as he sails further from the land, but it takes minutes for his body to remember the familiar movements.

 In late evening he drags Thranduil away from his papers, and an hour later they’re in the middle of the lake, drifting freely, both of them lying on a blanket on the deck, Bard’s head on Thranduil’s chest.

 “What about this one?” Bard points a finger towards the sky. It’s a cloudless night, and the sky is full of stars.

 Thranduil looks up at the constellation Bard is asking about and says something that sounds more like a tongue-twister than an actual name.

 “That sounds made up. You’re making this up.” Bard looks up at Thranduil suspiciously.

 “It means butterfly”. Thranduil replies, smiling, and strokes Bard’s hair in a delicate motion.

 “You’re a bloody butterfly.” Bard mutters to himself. Thranduil laughs out loud and sits up to kiss him, slowly and passionately, his hand on Bard’s cheek. And Bard kisses back fiercely, tasting the wine on Thranduil’s tongue, his fingers intertwined with the elf’s hair.

 In the worst possible moment a familiar tingling sensation comes back and he looks Thranduil in the eyes apologetically.

 “Hold that thought.” he whispers, before he’s completely gone.

 He arrives in a small room, lit only by a single candle, its dim light casting strange shadows on the walls and ceiling. Somebody dressed in black stands by the window, looking out at the dark, clouded night sky.

 “Did you know this would happen?” the person asks quietly and Bard recognizes Thranduil, his voice filled with heavy sadness. Bard hesitantly comes up closer, and inhales sharply as Thranduil turns around to look at him.

 The wounds on his face are not only not hidden, but also look much worse than Bard remembered, and he realizes whatever caused them happened very recently. He looks thin and sick, and Bard has never seen so much despair in his eyes.

 “You could’ve given me a heads up, at least.” he adds bitterly, leaning against the wall. “She’s gone, Bard. She’s…” his voice trails off. Bard carefully wraps his arms around him and pulls him into an awkward hug.

 “What happened?” he whispers after a moment of silence. Thranduil scoffs.

 “Don’t fight dragons.”

 Something goes wrong during Bard’s return, and instead of arriving comfortably back on the barge he falls straight into the lake, and Thranduil laughs at him wildly him before finally helping him up the deck. For a moment Bard can’t decide between punching the mocking grin off his face or showering him with kisses. He ends up choosing the latter, getting the elf as wet as possible in the process, and blessing tonight’s warm weather.

 “This didn’t go the way I planned.” he sighs once he’s done.

 “Plenty of night left.” Thranduil kisses him on the cheek and grins at him, and for a moment Bard remembers the way he saw him just moments ago - devastated and dressed in black and wounded .

 “I love you.” he says simply. Thranduil’s eyes widen for a second and then his smile gets even bigger.

 “I love you too.”

 ***

 When they work, they often work together, two chairs by one table, maps and books passed from hand to hand, brainstorming sessions interrupted by kisses. Elves on the streets of town are a usual sight, and if the Elvenking isn’t in his halls, it can be taken for granted he’s in Bard’s house, giving orders from a kitchen chair instead of a throne. Friendships flourish between the two kingdoms, like they never have before.

 Bard loves the way his house is transformed. Clean and cozy but with little furniture and no decorations before, it is now filled with pillows, sculpted chairs and candles everywhere. Thranduil’s favorite books stand on his shelves and there are spices and herbs in the kitchen he never even knew about.

 And he loves visiting Mirkwood too. The fantastic food and insanely comfortable beds are just a cherry on top - he loves walking through the woods with Thranduil, sitting with him in the gardens, and a bathtub big enough to fit two people is also a pleasant addition.

 He keeps travelling, and he still cannot find a way to control it. He attends Thranduil’s wedding one day, and watches him exchange rings with probably the most beautiful, ethereal woman he has ever seen. It’s a small ceremony with barely five people present, and the newlyweds are both wearing bright clothes and flower garlands. Bard gives Thranduil a thumbs up when the elf notices him, and they smile at eachother before he disappears.

 Other travels are less pleasant, like the time he nearly gets himself killed, arriving in the middle of a battlefield. He barely escapes the arrow meant for him, and it upsets Thranduil enough for Bard to regret even mentioning to him.

 But no matter where he disappears to, he finds comfort in knowing he can always come back to people who love him, and to the open arms of the always waiting Elvenking.

 They find gray hair on his head one day, and Thranduil fails to effectively hide his trepidation. Bard kisses him and makes a joke about at least not going bald, but as he looks into the mirror the image of his double choking in a puddle of blood flashes before his eyes. He’s starting to look more like him now.

 “I think we should do something.” Thranduil says suddenly one warm autumn evening.

 They’re walking a narrow path through the woods, holding hands and enjoying the light of a setting autumn sun shining through the red and orange leaves. They spent the day lounging by a fireplace with a stash of mulled wine, until Bard proposed a walk to catch some fresh air. They are stalling their return.

 “About what?” Bard furrows his brows as he looks at Thranduil.

 “About your travelling.” They stop walking, and Bard opens his mouth to protest. “I want to send some letters.” Thranduil adds, before he has a chance to.

 “To whom?” Bard sighs instead.

 “To Elrond in Rivendell. He’s a friend. He might be able to help.”

 Letters begin to course back and forth between The Woodland Realm and Rivendell, and finally one of them is an invitation to visit. So they do, leaving one of Bard’s friend in charge of Dale, and crossing their fingers for Mirkwood to stay in one piece under Legolas’ watch.

 They take a few guards with them, just in case, but no disturbances happen along the way. They sleep in tents and make campfires in the night, and though the nights are cold, and they get little sleep, it still feels like a well deserved vacation.

 He travels only once along the way. They rest of them take a break and simply wait for him on a meadow by the road. Thranduil makes the shocked guards promise to never mention this to anyone, and they do, with their hearts in their throats.

 Bard, meanwhile, attends his own coronation. He causes quite a commotion in the crowd when he arrives looking ten years older. Thranduil can barely stop himself from laughing when their eyes meet as Bard kneels to have the crown put on his head. He doesn’t remember the speech they came up with such a long time ago, so he just talks about how grateful he is and promises to do his best. He finishes with warning everyone it’s going to rain the day after tomorrow.

 Dain and Gandalf both look at him suspiciously when they congratulate him, but they don’t say anything. And Thranduil only shakes his head.

 “Proud of you.” he says jokingly when then finally get a chance to talk. “Are you going to tell everyone if the crops are going to be good this year too?” he adds, raising an eyebrow.

 “No, but I can tell you we’re going to have a great time tonight.” Bard answers, and kisses him on the cheek.

 He sticks around long enough to try the food and dance through a few songs, and promises Thranduil to see him soon. And then he joins the Elvenking and his guards on the road again. They’re not far from their destination now.

 Bard heard a lot of good things about Rivendell, and it outlives every single tale. The buildings are beautiful, and their hosts couldn’t be more gracious or kind. He likes Elrond immediately, his sharp eyes and discreet smirks. Elves here are different than the ones he knows - more calm, more patient, and he’s having a great time making friends and exploring the town while Elrond and Thranduil bury themselves in books and papers in the library. But every evening they come back empty-handed.

 They end up calling for reinforcements, and one day Bard stumbles upon a gray pointy hat left on a chair in the dining room. He’s actually happy to see Gandalf again, and glad to find out the wizard didn’t change at all - still cracking jokes, showing off and getting on Thranduil’s nerves.

 There is a lot of theories, and vague suggestions, and heated debates. They come up with an idea to get him drunk one day to induce the travelling. He agrees and ends up crashing through a younger Thranduil’s door in the middle of the night, breaks a chair and wakes up half the forest in the process. He disappears right before Thranduil’s guards burst into the room to protect their king. When he gets back Thranduil carries him to bed bridal-style and spends a lot of time in the morning apologizing for causing Bard’s hangover.

 And despite all that, they don’t find anything that could help control the travelling. Gandalf spreads his hands, Elrond starts writing a book, and the way back home feels much more dull and difficult than the way out.

 “I don’t mind.” Bard says to Thranduil quietly, as they’re sit under the stars, as close to a campfire as possible. “I had a great time. It’s fine.”

 Thranduil stares blankly at the flames.

 “I really thought we would find something.” he says slowly.

 “But why was it so important?” Bard puts his palm on Thranduil’s hand. “So I’ll keep travelling, so what?” he adds lightly, and gives the elf a peck on the cheek.

 “I don’t want to lose you yet.” Thranduil’s voice is almost a whisper.

 They part ways when they reach home, each of them eager to see if their kingdoms are well and taken care of, but early in the morning Thranduil is already at Bard’s door. He slips into bed with him and they go back to sleep with heavy hearts and hugged tightly.

 And then Bard wakes up somewhere else.

 He finds himself standing on a harbor. Agitated elvish voices reach his ears, shouting and laughing, and he immediately hides behind a nearby tree. From here he examines the unusual view.

 A huge ship made of white wood is anchored in the harbor, and there seem to be elves busy with something everywhere - boarding the ship, carrying baggage, or just talking. Among them Bard notices a familiar figure, that’s luckily facing his hiding spot at the moment, chatting with two other elves. He leans out from behind the tree just enough for Legolas to notice him.

 The elf’s eyes widen and his mouth drops for a moment, in a way that makes him so similar to his father. The ones he’s talking to turn around, following his eyes, and Bard immediately hides again, praying they didn’t notice him. A moment later Legolas walks up to him, handing him a dark green cloak he was previously wearing.

 "Hi." Bard grins, putting it on with relief. Legolas doesn't reply, staring at him intensely. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Bard adds jokingly.

 "I just did." the elf finally says slowly, and a cold shiver of realization goes down Bard’s spine.

 "You mean..." he frowns, and Legolas just nods. "When?" he asks simply, after a moment of hesitation.

 "I do not think I should tell you.” Legolas answers warily. "A long time ago.”

 “Is Thranduil…” Bard begins, but Legolas interrupts him.

 "He's fine. I mean... He is now.” He sighs shortly. “It was very difficult for a while, but... you know him.” Bard nods.

 "What is happening here?" he asks, making a vague gesture towards the rest of the elves.

 "We're all leaving. It's time for us to go." Legolas explains, turning around to look at the commotion. “Look there.” he says suddenly, grabbing Bard’s elbow and pointing towards the ship.

 Bard's heart beats faster when he sees Thranduil stepping out to the sun from below the deck. He hasn’t changed at all. Still the same haughty posture, golden hair, ridiculous crown. Bard unconsciously makes a few steps forward, forgetting about hiding.

 Their eyes meet, and Thranduil freezes. And Bard does too, as he realizes he’s disappearing again. He manages to look at Thranduil one last time and raise his hand in a gesture of goodbye.

 And then he’s back in his bedroom, with the familiar floor under his feet and his heart pounding in his chest, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness flows through his body. He looks at the bed to make sure Thranduil is still there, not going anywhere, not leaving on a ship to unknown lands. But he’s sleeping peacefully, and Bard breathes out in relief.

 He crawls into bed next to Thranduil and hugs him tightly, hiding his face in his hair. The elf’s breathing changes, and he turns around slowly.

 “Did something happen?” Thranduil whispers, reaching out to stroke Bard’s cheek. “You do not look well.”

 Bard shakes his head. Thranduil wraps his arms around him and doesn’t ask any more questions.

 ***

 There’s more gray hair on Bard’s head now, and his eyesight has been getting worse lately. Sometimes Thranduil needs to be reminded to slow down when they’re walking together, and Bard can see how much he worries. Not just about him - there are rumours about something bad coming, hushed conversations, and even less sun-filled paths and meadows in Mirkwood. And the Elvenking spends even more nights sleepless, sometimes burying himself in papers and books, sometimes just staring at the ceiling, Bard sleeping by his side.

 On the upside, Bard’s travelling happens very rarely now. He’s secretly hoping it will just stop by itself.

 When March comes they decide a celebration of the new year might help lift everyone’s spirits. Tables are brought out onto the meadow, lanterns hung on trees, and even Dain and his subjects are invited. Over the years the animosities between Erebor dwarves and Mirkwood elves got lost between all the pacts, meetings and agreements. It’s still not a very close friendship - but it’s far from hatred that burned between them before.

 The party goes smoothly and without interruptions - the night is warm, the music is lively, there is wine and dancing, and a chance for a lot of the guests to unwind for the first time in a long while. Even the Elvenking dances, after Bard asks him to for the third time, and everyone forgets about the worries hanging over their heads. And early in the morning Bard and Thranduil sneak out to the forest, away from the laughing and singing crowd.

 “Did you have fun?” Thranduil asks as they’re walking, breathing in the brisk air of a spring morning. He changed his crown today - it’s decorated with small flowers now, and Bard loves it.

 “I always do with you.” he replies, and takes Thranduil’s hand.

 They sit down on a fallen, moss covered tree on a small meadow. Stars are fading in the sky, and Bard puts his head on Thranduil’s shoulder. He’s tired. Echoes of the still ongoing party reach them even here. He closes his eyes, and Thranduil wraps his arms around him in a warm embrace, covering them both with his long overcoat.

 And then he feels that cursed tingle in his body that he hasn’t felt in a long time. When he opens his eyes in surprise, he’s already in a different time and place, torn from the warmth and peace, and he shivers from the cold.

 He hasn’t travelled far. He can recognize the place - it’s still Mirkwood, couple of miles from Thranduil’s halls, though it seems a bit different. The trees are younger, there’s more light, more noise in the air. He sighs, disappointed, hoping to come back to his own time soon.

 Turning around he faces a deer, staring straight into his eyes. He stops moving and holds his breath, not wanting to scare it. The whole world seems to stop with him for a second, as the deer looks at him peacefully, wiggling its ears.

 And suddenly he feels something tearing into his body, and he shouts out in pain. The deer disappears, and he stumbles backwards, looking down at the arrow sticking out of his side, and blood trickling down from the wound. A terrible, piercing pain spreads through him and every breath hurts. The world around him begins to fade.

 He falls backwards onto a table in his own kitchen, knocking down bottles and glasses, and then topples to the floor. The arrow stayed behind, and blood is gushing from the wound now, and pressing his hands to it does nothing. He can see Percy standing above him, shocked and frozen, and he realizes what’s happening.

 Terrified, he tries to take a deep breath and say something to Percy, but he just chokes. Thranduil and his other self run into the room, and a bitter feeling clenches his heart as he looks at them, together and so much younger.

 And then the floor swims away from under him and everything fades to black.

 

Back in the forest Thranduil and little Legolas approach the place Bard was a moment ago. Legolas is carrying his brand new bow carefully and with pride.

 “I thought I got it!” he complains loudly, as he realizes the deer they’ve been following ran away. Thranduil looks around, frowning. He smells the air, picking up a familiar scent, but sees nobody between the trees. “Dad, look!” Legolas exclaims and points towards the arrow on the ground.

 “It has to be close.” Thranduil says. “Come on.”

**Author's Note:**

> " _Evennol._ " - "Go."  
> " _...ú-chenion... Am man theled?..._ " - "I don't understand... For what purpose?"  
> " _Avo bedo!_ " - "Do not speak!"  
> " _Daro! Man le?_ " - "Stop! Who are you?"
> 
> Oh and the constellation Thranduil names on the barge is Wilwarin.
> 
> sources: councilofelrond.com, arwen-undomiel.com, sindarinlessons.weebly.com, tolkiengateway.net


End file.
